


Queen Upon the Ivy

by incandescent (lmeden)



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 16:48:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmeden/pseuds/incandescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A picnic is no fun without at least one illicit tryst.</p><p>Also: forbidden, allowed, return, reunion, older, sweet, gentle, magnificent, yearning, touch</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen Upon the Ivy

They trip and fall by the lamppost, yet Susan doesn’t realize where they are until Peter looks up and gapes.

“Oh.”

Susan cranes her head back, still breathless from the chase, and squints at the ivy-covered pole. She frowns and pushes herself up, gathering her skirts beneath her to make a cushion. 

“Whatever could—” Then she remembers the wardrobe and the faun, and, of course, the winter, and cuts herself off. “ _Oh._ ”

“Well,” Peter says, “it was only a matter of time until we found it again. I’ll have to find someone to mark it on a map. You know, for old time’s sake.” He pushes up and moves towards her. “Now.”

As he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, Susan places her hands between them, her ardor dulled by memories. “Do you remember the old house?” she asks. “With all its dark-paneled halls and the hush that you could never quite dispel, no matter how loudly you laughed?”

“Yes, and I’m quite glad we’re somewhere far from it. Now will you _come here_?”

Susan sighs and lets him kiss her. He’s quite good, she must say, though of course she hasn’t had much to compare it with – it isn’t like she’s ever been interested in kissing _Edmund_. 

Peter pushes the shoulders of her dress down and tugs at the bodice until it loosens. Susan reaches for the laces of his fly and works at them, all the while tilting her head back to kiss him open mouthed, eyes closed. She feels the slow throb of arousal begin to curl within her. 

Her dress is finally loose enough for Peter to slip his hand inside, and so he does, cupping a hand around her breast and pulling it free. She feels her nipple tighten and peak, and he rubs it with his palm, sending a spark through her. She yanks the laces from his trousers and reaches inside to touch his cock. It’s hot and half-hard, and she swallows, pulling back out of the kiss. 

He pushes her back against the lamppost, and the ivy that has covered it tickles the back of her neck. _We’re brother and sister_ , she thinks for the first time in a long time. _This is wrong_.

They have been King and Queen for too long – so overcome by their duties and titles that they’ve forgotten their past, what it is to be English, and not Narnian. 

Peter reaches, grasping, for a grip on her hair, and she slaps his hand down. “Not the hair,” she hisses. If he wrecks her braids, they’ll be _impossible_ to redo before they head back to the picnic. And then what will they say to Edmund and Lucy?

 _Oh, I don’t care,_ she admits to herself after a moment. He kisses so sweetly, and feels so good against her. 

Susan shifts onto her knees and pulls at her skirts, lifting them high. Peter reaches under. She shivers as he touches her cunt and his eyes go wide. 

“No _pants_ , Susan,” he hisses, scandalized. He grins up at her and she responds in turn, spreading her legs to let him push his fingers inside of her. She bears down on them, wanting more. She grasps Peter by the hair and pulls him close, falling back onto her arse. 

She leaves her skirts where they are and spreads her legs, propping herself up on her elbows. “Come on, quickly, then.”

Peter half-scowls at the implication and moves forward, pressing her down with one hand and guiding himself with the other. 

She feels him nudge at her entrance, thick and hot, and her thighs ache as they attempt to spread further. Then he’s sliding in, almost too much, and she gasps at the sensation. It spreads through her and she reaches out, hungry, to pull him close. 

He falls upon her, hips working as he pushes himself inside. Susan kisses him, sloppy and wet, and Peter groans in response. 

His hips jerk, and he forces himself deeper. She clenches around him and feels his breath catch. He moves, faster and rougher, shoving her against the sharp rocks on the ground and the lamppost behind her shoulder. The pain that streaks through her is a mere inconvenience, and she wraps her legs around him. 

In a moment more, he stiffens, and Susan watches his face freeze into the most uncomfortable expression before he relaxes and sighs. Slowly, he moves back, pulling out as he softens. 

Susan’s clit still throbs, and she wants more. She pushes his shoulder, forcing him down her body until he is hovering over her waist. 

“Well? Just do it.” 

Peter raises a brow at her in a gesture too kingly to be borne, so Susan reaches out, snatches his hair, and forces him down. He licks her folds, the gesture long and slow, and Susan lets her head fall back. Yes, that’s about right. 

She shifts to let him get closer, and he presses tighter, the sensation of teeth a thrilling contrast to the soft muscle of his tongue. She gasps, chest heaving, and presses her hips down against him. He flicks her thigh and she flinches back, snapping her head up to glare. He doesn’t even meet her gaze. 

Soon, she forgets the impunity and lets herself relax. Her head falls back against the grass and ivy and she sighs. Peter really does have a _lovely_ tongue. Her pleasure is sharpening, becoming unbearable, and she urges Peter on – faster, harder – with small sounds. 

Just when it becomes almost too much, when she fears that her body had become so tight that it will snap, she comes, a release so profound that it leaves her breathless and limp upon the ground. 

She feels Peter pulls her skirts down to cover her. 

He moves to kiss her, but his lips are slick, so she shoves him weakly away. He sighs and settles next to her, curving his body to match hers. 

“We’ll probably be late for the picnic, won’t we?” he asks mournfully. 

Susan lets her head roll towards him and sends him a look, but just then his stomach rolls over and growls. She laughs, wildly amused, and Peter scowls down at her. 

“Well I, for one, will attempt to make myself presentable.” Peter stands and runs his fingers through his hair, then takes off his jacket and uses a hidden part of his shirt to wipe at his face. He tucks himself away and redoes his fly. “I’ll see you soon?” he asks, and Susan nods, unwilling even to speak, and waves him away with a flick of her hand. 

When he has crunched away and the forest is silent once more, Susan lifts her hand and then lets it fall to the side, curling her fingers across the cold metal surface of the lamppost. It is not at all rusted or damaged, merely hidden by the ivy. 

Bitterly, Susan wishes it ill, that it will corrode, turn to red flecks of metal and blow away in the wind. She wants nothing to mark this spot. 

She wants to never return to England. She could stay here forever.


End file.
